Unholy Night (3 page)

The next two weeks had been fun. More importantly, they’d been fruitful.

Each night as Flavia slept, Balthazar rose silently from her bed and went to work—slowly, methodically sneaking his way through the slumbering compound. Mapping it in his mind until he knew its every corner by heart. Until he knew the sleeping habits of every slave and the position of every guard. Until he knew how to walk from one side to the other without setting foot in the glow of the torches. And most of all, until he had examined every confiscated item in the governor’s fabled storeroom, which he’d found on the first night, and which, like everything in Tel Arad, had exceeded his expectations.

And on the night that Balthazar felt he could know no more, he’d filled two large saddlebags—the most he could reasonably carry and still move quickly if he had to—with predetermined items chosen for their value-to-weight ratios. Bags stuffed, he’d snuck back along his carefully rehearsed route toward the compound’s rear gate. The one that was always unmanned for a ten-minute window at this time of night, thanks to a guard with a
phenomenally
regular constitution.

He crept along in the dark, through the garden—
twenty-seven steps
—past the fountain—
another ten but veering slightly left
—then a sharp right turn at the sundial. After that, it was just thirty steps in a straight line to the gate.
Thirty steps to free—

“Sargon?”

Balthazar nearly let out a yelp as he spun in the direction of the voice. At first, he thought he’d come face-to-face with a ghost. A translucent white being seemed to float toward him out of the darkness, barely perceivable in the light of the moon. He stood, frozen, as it moved closer…until Balthazar saw what it
really
was: a white sleeping gown, fluttering in the warm night air.

“Flavia…,” he whispered.

“You’re…you’re a thief,” she said.

What gave you that idea? Is it the two huge bags of stolen treasure I’m carrying out here in the middle of the night?

“No—”

“You used me.”

Yes, I used you, and I’d use you again. And who are you to feel used, anyway? You’re a
Roman
. All your kind does is use. All you do is rape, and burn, and steal, and murder.

“No,” said Balthazar. “Flavia, listen to m—”

“Shut up!”

All she had to do was scream and the guards would come running. And when that happened, the exciting trouble currently making Balthazar’s heart pound against the back of his ribs would become real trouble—
blood trouble
—in a hurry.

On the other hand, she could just as easily let him slip away into the night. No one would ever suspect her unwitting part in the robbery. Her chastity would never be called into question, and Balthazar would be halfway to anywhere by morning, with a promise to return and “take you away, Flavia—when the time is right, take you away from all of this so we can be together.” A promise he would have no intention of keeping.

“Flavia,” he said. “Listen to me, okay? Yes…yes, I was taking these. Taking them from your father’s storeroom. But you have to believe me—I have good reason to take them! Your father stole these things from the people of Tel Arad! Poor people! Honest men! I couldn’t stand by and watch them suffer. The truth is, I was stealing them, yes. Stealing them from the man who stole them first. Stealing them back so that I could return them to their rightful owners! Aren’t you always talking about how cruel and selfish your father is? Well
here
, Flavia! Here’s the proof!”

I’m getting through to her. Now make it personal…turn her mind away from the theft.

“And…and yes,” he continued, “I know I should have told you first. But I didn’t want to get you involved. What if something had gone wrong? What if you’d gotten in trouble? I wouldn’t have been able to live with myself, Flavia. You’re too good for this.”

“I…I don’t know…”

Yes, you do.

“Flavia, I swear on our love…on my
soul
—everything I say is true.”

She stood there for a moment, conflicted and confused. A victim of youth and inexperience and a deep desire—a
need
—to believe that everything he was saying was, in fact, true.

“Please, Flavia, there isn’t much time.…”

I could always give her a knock on the head. If it came down to it, just a little knock on the head. Not enough to
really
hurt her, but enough to let me get the hell out of here.

But Balthazar didn’t think that would be necessary. His instincts were beginning to tell him this was going to be okay—and he decided to trust them.

She’s not going to scream. She hates her father. Yes, she hates her father, hates the fact that he brought her here. Besides…we’ve shared everything. Our deepest secrets. Our deepest love. And yes, that’s all bullshit—but not to her. There’s no way she’d give me up. She loves me. No…I’m a man with a knack for knowing things, and I
know
she’s not going to scream. I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life.

She screamed.

I
t was clear he wasn’t going to make Jerusalem. The camel had been gradually slowing down over the past hour. And as much as Balthazar kicked and cursed, it wouldn’t pick up the pace. This wasn’t stubbornness…he’d stolen a dud.

Balthazar knew of a good-sized village just north of Jerusalem—Bethel, if he remembered correctly. Or Beit El. Or whatever the hell they called it.
The one that sounds like “Bethlehem” but isn’t.
It didn’t matter. He knew it was there, some eight miles ahead, and it would have to do. With his camel fading fast, he pointed its nose in the village’s direction. There was still a chance. He could still get away, as long as the beast held up.

What’s that story the Jews tell? The one about the menorah that had enough oil for only one night but burned for eight? That’s my camel…only enough fuel left for one mile. If it lasts eight, it’ll be a miracle.

Miracle or not, the camel made it, and Balthazar galloped into Bethel (he’d been right the first time) only a minute or so ahead of the untold menace behind him. It was one of the nicer satellites that orbited Jerusalem. A small village of fewer than 2,000 people where many Jewish noblemen chose to escape the noise and bustle of the city with their families. There were no inns to accommodate travelers, no massive temple spewing sacrificial smoke or bazaar spewing noise and fragrances. And while the census was currently packing the streets of Jerusalem only eight miles away, you’d hardly know there
was
a census looking at Bethel. Fewer than ten people took note of him as he galloped into the village’s small central square.

Balthazar brought the camel to a stop, which it was all too happy to do, and leapt to the ground. He pulled the half-empty saddlebags off its back, threw both of them over his left shoulder, and gave the camel a firm smack on its hindquarters. He couldn’t have it standing around. God knows how many soldiers were about to come riding into the village with orders to find and kill him at all costs. If they saw the camel, they’d have a pretty good idea where to start looking.

“Go! Get outta here!”

It didn’t budge. He smacked it again.

“GO!”

It groaned deeply, knelt forward on its spindly legs, then fell over on its side with a ground-shaking thud—all 1,200 pounds of it.

Dead.

Balthazar took a moment to consider this. In retrospect, maybe he
had
ridden it a bit too hard. And now that he got a better look, it wasn’t nearly as young as he’d thought. Not even close to fifteen or twenty. In fact, it was one of the oldest camels he’d ever seen. Come to think of it…it
was
a miracle they’d made it this far.

Balthazar didn’t know what to say. Partly because he was pressed for time, but mostly because sincerity wasn’t his strong suit, he settled on, “Sorry.”

Then, the grieving period over, he ran like hell.

He knew the villagers would keep him safe. They hated the Romans just as much as he did.
Okay, so these aren’t actual Roman troops chasing me—they’re Judeans. But really, when you get right down to it, is there a difference? They all take their orders from Rome, just like Herod the Great, that lying, festering, murderous puppet.
If there was one thing the Jews hated more than Augustus Caesar, it was the client king who ruled Judea for him. And while Balthazar wasn’t a Jew per se, he was certainly no friend of Herod. That had to count for something, right? The enemy of my enemy?

He was the Antioch Ghost, and people loved a celebrity. Even a minor one.

No, the villagers would take pity on him. They would keep him safe and hidden when the army came kicking down their doors any minute now. And if pity wasn’t enough, then bribing them with a share of his remaining treasure would make up the difference.

Balthazar ran across the square, his bags half full of twice-stolen gold and silver, frankincense and silk, his face still covered by the shemagh. He was headed for the largest building in sight—the only one with a second story and one of the few made from brick. The building had an arched roof and small, glass-paned windows along its eastern and western faces, an extravagance rarely seen outside of Rome. And though Balthazar couldn’t see the source, a column of white smoke rose from behind the building. There wasn’t much strategy behind his choosing it. A bigger building offered more hiding places. And more hiding places meant a greater chance of survival.

But as soon as he crossed the threshold, Balthazar knew he was a dead man.

He
had
to be dead…for this was surely heaven. There were wet, naked women everywhere. Beautiful. Bare. Steam rising off of their glistening bodies, the vapors glowing in the rays of sunlight that streamed through the glass above.

A bathhouse.

An arched ceiling peaked twenty feet overhead, its smooth surface painted to resemble olive trees reaching toward a cloudy sky. The bath itself, which took up most of the room, was lined with mosaic tiles. Mosaic tiles and the naked bodies of fifteen women. Women who were currently staring at the dusty man with a covered face and large bags over his shoulder. The man who had no business being in the women’s bath.

This was no Flavia situation. There was no question in Balthazar’s mind that
these
women were about to start screaming unless he acted quickly. Shaking himself back into focus, he brought a finger to his lips—
shhhh—
and in as nonthreatening a voice as he could manage, said, “A thousand pardons…”

He pulled the shemagh down, revealing his face—a handsome mix of sunburn and stubble, a prominent scar on his right cheek in the shape of an
X
. He gave them a smile. Charming, reassuring. Even a bit dashing, he suspected. It was a smile he’d spent hours practicing in the reflective waters of the Orontes River, and it was, if he didn’t mind saying so, one of his stronger assets.

“I,” he continued, “am the Antioch Ghost.”

Was that the twinkle of recognition in some of their eyes?

“I’m just looking for a place to hide from Herod’s men. Once they’re gone, I’ll be on my way without another word. You have nothing to fear, my sisters—I promise you.”

They didn’t scream.

People love a celebrity.

Short of his remaining treasure, Balthazar would’ve given anything in the world to stay and soak in this sight a little longer, but he could hear the rumble of horses’ hooves growing near outside.
Time to disappear.
Certain that he and the women had reached an understanding, he proceeded as rapidly and respectfully as possible across the room, toward a row of women’s robes hanging on the opposite wall. Enough of them to hide a man and a pair of saddlebags behind, no problem.

It was perfect. The soldiers wouldn’t dare intrude on the privacy of bathing women. Nor would the women likely run into the streets and tattle without their clothes. Balthazar could hear the muffled sounds of orders being shouted outside, the clanging of swords and armor as men fanned out. Seconds later, three Judean soldiers entered. Balthazar watched as the men had the same sequence of reactions he’d had: shock, followed immediately by embarrassment, followed immediately by excitement.

One of the soldiers regained his composure enough to speak: “Pardon us…”

Go ahead, you dog. Go ahead and ask them if they’ve seen a man come through here. My sisters won’t say a word. If anything, they’ll tell you to go to hell.

“Have you seen—”

Balthazar’s heart sank as every last woman pointed toward his hiding place in unison.

They didn’t even let him finish the question…

So here it was. After a day in the desert, a dead camel, and a fortune in abandoned spoils, it would come to this.

Balthazar was an exceptional thief. An excellent aggravator and proven survivor. But what he excelled at, what he was truly gifted at, was taking human lives with his sword. This wasn’t a point of pride.
Well, maybe just a little.
But in general, he measured success in treasure, not blood. “Success,” he was fond of saying, “is stealing a fortune without drawing your sword. Failure is a pile of bodies and no profit.”

The three soldiers drew their swords and started across the room, toward the row of hanging robes the women had pointed to.

None of them had more than a few seconds to live.

Peter could almost taste his victory. As a captain in Herod’s army, there were few priorities higher than catching the Antioch Ghost. And now it seemed he was within moments of doing just that. Such an honor would mean a promotion, of course. Money. Land. Maybe even a slave to farm it for him. Best of all, it would mean a ticket out of Tel Arad and an end to dealing with that fat, corrupt Roman, Decimus Petronius Verres.

His men were kicking in every door, searching every house in the area. The Ghost couldn’t have gone far. They’d reached the square less than a minute after he’d reached it, and he’d stupidly left a dead camel as a starting point for their search. The fact that he’d taken the time to kill it for no reason showed just how vile their fugitive really was.

Of course, some of his men doubted that their target really
was
the Antioch Ghost. But Peter knew. He’d been around long enough to recognize his methods. His choice of prey. Even before Flavia had described the man she’d seen robbing her father’s compound—
tall and olive-skinned, with a strong build, dark hair to his shoulders, and an X-shaped scar across his right cheek
—he’d known. He also knew enough to suspect that she’d left out the part about inviting him into her bed, but that wasn’t important. So when reports of a similar-looking man stealing a Bedouin’s camel came in, Peter had gathered as many soldiers as he could and given chase across the Judean Desert—choking on dust and praying that the Ghost didn’t beat him to Jerusalem, where he would’ve disappeared in seconds.

Captain Peter had asked God for a miracle, and God had answered. Here he was in Bethel. The last place he’d expected to be when he’d woken up this morning. The place he would always remember as the home of his great victory…assuming God would help him just a little more. Once again, Peter appealed to the Lord.…

Give me a sign, Heavenly Father. Help me bring this murderous thief to justice. Help me to protect the children of Israel and uphold your law, O God.

Of course, he left out the part about being rewarded with money and land and slaves, but that wasn’t important. Once again, God delivered. For no sooner had Peter finished his prayer than a sound reached his ears. A beautiful sound that meant glory was at hand:

Muffled screams coming from the bathhouse.

The head landed in the water, its eyes still blinking as it sank to the bottom, and the women finally released their pent-up screams. They climbed over each other, trying to get out of the bath as a dark red cloud spread through it.

Balthazar had waited until the advancing soldiers were within arm’s length before jumping out from behind the robes and swinging at the closest man. It’d been one of those lucky swings—one in a hundred, really—where the blade had hit the neck
just
right, between the vertebrae, and gone clean through. Before the first soldier’s head had even splashed down, Bal­thazar had kicked the second in the chest, knocking him onto his back. Then, just as the first screams began to echo through the room, he’d run the third soldier through the belly and out the back. He’d held the soldier—who wasn’t much more than a boy—up with his blade, watching his face drain from pink to ash white, then yanked it out, spilling his blood and entrails onto the tiled floor.